Lord of The Mysterious Realms Chapter 667

Since the others hadn't returned, the two men agreed they should wait for everyone before having dinner. But the wait dragged on until half-past twelve. They stood at the main entrance of the villa, gazing worriedly into the blizzard. Visibility was poor, with the distance swallowed by a vast, white emptiness.

The missing party surely carried pocket watches, so it was unlikely they had simply lost track of time. With no sign of their return, Mr. Joel Mangus decided to assemble a search party.

The villa was a property of the Mandela family and was typically rented out as a holiday resort, so it was well-staffed. For safety, the able-bodied servants were organized into three-man teams to head out and search, while Jenkins and Quake could only stay behind and wait for news.

The snow outside grew heavier, and the villa's main door could no longer be fully opened. If it were, the gale would blast into the building, sending vases, oil paintings, and any loose decorations crashing to the floor.

The first search party returned from the blizzard half an hour later. They had only circled the main villa but had found no trace of the missing group. Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn novel·fiɾe·net

"The snow is just too heavy!"

The men's hats and shoulders were caked with snow, and they were shivering so violently they could hardly string a sentence together:

"Oh, Mr. Mangus, we didn't find any sign of them where they went out to watch the snow."

The second team, which had gone to check the bridge, returned with grim news.

Quake nearly dropped his teacup on the carpet.

"Don't worry, sir. The villa was constructed with this possibility in mind. Although that bridge is the main way out, there is another path off the mountain if you take a bit of a detour. It's a difficult route, however, and we'll have to wait for the snow to stop before sending anyone. Please, rest assured, the collapsed bridge won't leave us stranded."

Mr. Joel Mangus, the villa's manager, offered the two his assurance, but his own expression was fraught with worry.

The news of the collapsed bridge cast a pall over the villa. At least psychologically, everyone now understood they were completely isolated.

The heavy snow was a major obstacle, covering any tracks almost as soon as they were made. And though the weather was treacherous, Mr. Mangus, who knew the identities of the missing guests, relentlessly ordered the servants to continue the search. He was acutely aware that if even one of them perished in these mountains, both he and his master would face dire consequences.

Hathaway had to be far from the villa; Jenkins could no longer see her spiritual aura. As time ticked by, his own anxiety grew. Noticing that Quake felt the same, he proposed:

"Let's go out and have a look ourselves. It's dangerous, I know, but we can't just sit here and wait."

Quake hesitated only for a moment before agreeing. They went to Mr. Mangus and explained their plan. Naturally, he refused. But faced with their persistence and their promise to stick close to the search party, he finally relented.

The mountain forests were treacherous in winter, so each search party was equipped with a hunting rifle. The old-fashioned firearms were clumsy to use, but they were sufficient to frighten away wolves or other predators at close range.

At ten past two in the afternoon, Jenkins and three of the villa's servants stepped through the main gate. Everyone was bundled in heavy winter coats; umbrellas were useless in this weather, as the wind would just snatch them away and hinder their progress.

Their plan was to follow the path outside the villa westward for twenty minutes and then return, regardless of whether they found any clues.

The weather outside was even worse than Jenkins had imagined. The wind drove the snowflakes against his face, stinging like tiny stones. Even with a hat and scarf covering most of his face, the assault was unavoidable.

His surroundings were a swirling white haze. He trudged through the snow, sinking with one step and finding purchase with the next, occasionally steadying himself against a snow-laden cedar to catch his breath. Jenkins would never have ventured out in such conditions if he hadn't felt compelled to; he already longed for the warmth of the villa.

"What time is it now?"

He gasped for breath, then turned to shout the question to his companions, only to be startled by the discovery that he was completely alone.

"Quinn? Marple? Wren?"

He called out the servants' names again, his voice swallowed by the wind. Behind him, only a single line of his own footprints stretched back into the white expanse.

"Weren't they just here?"

It had been five minutes at most. The four of them had been talking, debating whether they were on the right path.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

He yelled again, then abandoned any thought of pressing forward. Turning, he began to retrace his steps, following the trail of his footprints before the snow could erase them completely. Soon, he spotted bloodstains on the ground, and then, the hunting rifle, dropped in a snowdrift.

The blood was fresh, a clear sign his companions had been injured. But the blizzard was so relentless that Jenkins could hardly lift his head, and he had no idea where to even begin searching for the missing men.

"Was it a wolf that was trailing us? Or some other predator?"

He tried to search the snow for any non-human tracks, but the storm had already erased any subtle marks.

Left with no other choice, he undid the buttons of his coat and pulled out the cat that had come along but refused to walk on its own. Poor Chocolate had never experienced such dreadful weather. It clung to Jenkins's coat, struggling frantically to burrow back into the warmth, absolutely refusing to emerge.

"I just need to borrow your nose. See that patch of blood? I need to know if there are any strange scents around here, and where they lead."

The moment Jenkins loosened his grip, it scrambled back inside his coat.

He decided he would deal with the uncooperative cat later. Crouching with some effort, he began digging through the snow with his gloved hands. After a few minutes, he uncovered more blood. The trail clearly led away from the path. Though the path itself was now invisible under a blanket of white, Jenkins's sense of direction told him this new heading was wrong.

Following the trail of blood, he pressed on. It wasn't long before he came across severed limbs. He quickened his pace, his eyes falling on a mess of animal tracks in the snow. Then he saw them: a pack of wolves, feasting in a clearing.

Animals, for all their lack of intelligence, possess a keen sensitivity. They must have sensed that Jenkins was a dangerous creature, which was why they had dragged away his three companions but had given up on attacking him.